Secret Messages, In Pursuit of Catharsis

I keep catching myself in anxiety spirals only to double back, trace each piece of just barely visible fuzz in the spider web to the source, and find, oh hello it is you again, isn’t? Hello grief.

A quick sketch, charcoal on newsprint.

Dearest Doodle Soupsters,

What does it mean to move on? To move forward?

I keep catching myself in anxiety spirals only to double back, trace each piece of just barely visible fuzz in the spider web to the source, and find, oh hello it is you again, isn’t? Hello grief.

I bury my grief under layers of doubt, worries, insecurities, any scenario I can think up to distract me from this overwhelming ache. And when I stop, I remember all over again what it is I’m running from. A pain in my chest, hollow. A hole I can’t fill. A stubborn emptiness where a mother and father would have been.

I’ve been asking myself: what do I need to say aloud? what do I need to express? is it something i need to write down privately? to express with the art stashed underneath my desk in the studio? can that be it?

This space is important to me. Chicken Doodle Soup. You all as my witness. Some of you relate directly to what I write, some may simply appreciate my art, poetry, storytelling. That means something to me. This project has allowed me to free myself in ways I can’t quite replace with something else. It’s not that I need or want my life to be public knowledge. It’s that I’ve had to keep so many secrets for so long about my trauma, about my feelings, about who I am, what I truly desire and want from life.

I even kept these secrets from myself from time to time … well, pretty often. And even if it’s just a personality thing, that I crave honesty, isn’t that valid? Isn’t that a good enough reason? That I love to exist in such a way where my heart feels open, like I’ve “gotten things off my chest.” Chest. Again.

I feel blocked. After I shared an important detail of my story on social media a while ago, I received some pretty staggering emails from my parents. (I’ve blocked their emails addresses, but still, I check my spam. And I find them there. Why do I check my spam anyway? hmm…) I don’t want to get into all the details, but it really hurt me. It’s so hard to believe myself already. I don’t want to believe that these memories are real because they’re horrifying and heart-breaking. I want to see the best in everyone, including my abusers. But forgiving my parents, seeing the best in them, has always been the prelude to them hurting me all over again. So many times. Including in the recent past.

I need to believe myself. I need (want?) to be honest. I don’t know how to move forward or move on any other way. And I’ve tried. I’ve tried so many other ways.

I want to say I’m not scared of my parents, but I’d be lying. I am scared. And that’s maybe that’s okay. So I’ll share what I need to share to free myself, while meeting myself where I’m at.

I just took some pictures of the art stashed under my desk …

these works playing with the concept of secret messages … loving you shouldn’t mean … the truth hidden in plain sight, overlapping words … this message isn’t for you … notes to myself … the catharsis of confession and I say confession because a child often cannot separate out themselves from the actions of their perpetrator …

Side note: Here’s how a resource guide on Beauty After Bruises explains it —

“When an adult experiences a traumatic event, they have more tools to understand what is happening to them, their place as a victim of that trauma, and know they should seek support even if they don't want to. Children don't possess most of these skills, or even the ability to separate themselves from another's unconscionable actions. The psychological and developmental implications of that become complexly woven and spun into who that child believes themselves to be — creating a messy web of core beliefs much harder to untangle than the flashbacks, nightmares and other post-traumatic symptoms that come later.”

… and so I harbor that guilt and shame that doesn’t belong to me, I still do … it weighs heavy on me, in my throat, on my chest, throughout my body and mind …

I wrote a song recently with similar themes (you can listen to a section of it if you’d like) … after I wrote the bulk of the song, I added an outro where I sing:

hi im not fine with this

never will be

but im just trying to get things off my chest

not trying to make you feel bad

just trying to unburden myself

do i not deserve freedom from your secrets, i believe i do

the person who came up with the phrase never say never clearly never had to sever a connection with a person you love who refused to change

i forgave just to be reminded of why forgiveness will never be enough

saying never again is not just any old option, it’s my peace we’re talking about, no really my overwhelm slash how much

because a person can only bend so far before they break or forget which way is up and which is down

And, here are more artworks on this same theme that I’ve been working on, on and off, for the past year or so, some incorporating pieces/drawings I made a further while back.

Part of what being an artist means to me is vulnerability, wearing my heart on my sleeve, right? Letting my insides show? But what do you do when you also need to protect yourself from two people who are willing to threaten you, discount you, make you feel that powerlessness and heartbreak all over again? How do I free myself while protecting myself from them, alongside the truths that I really wish that I didn't need protection from my parents and that I do?

I don’t have the answer to this question. But for now, this is what feels right. Sharing these artworks with you. Sharing these words with you, some parts vague, intentionally so, because this is what I’m currently able to do. This is what feels right, for now.

So many people ask this question: why don’t sexual abuse survivors just tell someone? Well, it can take years before you even get the support to allow yourself to feel it, to believe yourself. Even then, it’s exhausting. And again and again, it feels like this horrible set of choices. Trying to find some semblance of normalcy and peace, feeling a need to use your voice because otherwise, it feels like reinforcing the shame, all the lies you’ve been fed. What is the middle path? How do I use my voice and protect my precious little energy? How do I heal when the people who did this to me face zero accountability? And I don’t know any way to hold them accountable that doesn’t also feel like I’m hurting myself?

Where is the line between safety and stifling myself? Where does my need for privacy end and my need to show myself I’m not powerless anymore begin, my need for community, for human connection? And what do I do about the fact that I know my experience is not at all uncommon? How do I take care of myself as well as be myself when being myself means standing up for what I believe is right?

These are complicated questions. And maybe, it’s not that I need a perfect answer to them. I think I just need to express myself right now. This is who I am. I crave honesty. I want to live with an open heart and an open throat, that I’m not swallowing my pain, hiding out alone because it’s only thing that feels safe.

Whether you realize it or not, you all help me move on and move forward. It isn’t enough to scribble words into a journal. Or to make art and stash it under a desk.

Community, being witnessed, connection with others, sharing … it is a salve for the shame, guilt, and confusion I feel about all of the things I’ve described above and all of the “secret messages” I’ve embedded into the artworks.

This is how I free myself, and hopefully, how we free each other.

Meeting myself where I’m at, moving on, moving forward, unburdening myself, in pursuit of catharsis,

Nicole Sylvia Javorsky